Cracked
by Thesamegirl
Summary: "How else can Mickey explain what he is considering other than that he has completely lost his fucking mind?" Set as if Terry never walked in on them, and their relationship was allowed to progress.


It's after three in the morning when Mickey gives up hope of getting any sleep. Lying spread-eagled on his back, he kicks the sheets down to his knees, and the late summer breeze presses in. The air is heavy, weighing down his limbs and pushing him even further into his thin mattress. It may as well have been wet cement, as he can feel himself sinking deeper into the bed below him until he is glued in place, a part of the furniture and just as stuck.

Shadows move across the walls as cars drive by, and the street light outside his window flickers, an electric hum of Morse code sputtering gently in the background. The plastic blinds over his window rattle against the glass and the omnipresent smell of old weed and burned pizza presses into the back of his throat, but Mickey feels as if he is floating above it all as he continues to stare at the dented wall by his bed, his head turned at a sharp angle.

The section of wall is bare, clear of the pictures of screamo bands and naked women that cover the majority of his room. He removed the posters about a week ago for some reason he still can't quite explain or at least doesn't want to acknowledge, tearing them down in a fit of upset and rage until all that remained was a shredded pile of glossy paper and Mandy standing in his doorway yelling that he'd "lost his fucking mind."

The wall looks clean now; a crisp, white circle of plaster no longer sullied by the harsh, depraved front that Mickey has come to associate with life. The caved-in surface seems naked and exposed, every line and dent vulnerable to Mickey's gaze.

His eyes trace the web-like cracks, following their linear patterns as they branch out from a center point in a circular design, and Mickey can't look at them without remembering how they got there. The imprint of an elbow is still visible near the top.

Feeling the lump pressing into his hip near the side of his bed, Mickey wonders if he has finally cracked, too. How else can he explain what he is considering other than that he has completely lost his fucking mind?

His old gym bag is stuffed under his mattress, partially filled with second-hand jeans and old, worn tee shirts from an earlier attempt at packing that he had quickly abandoned, berating himself for being an idiot before throwing himself down on his bed. He couldn't bring himself to empty the bag, however, so he had just shoved it out of sight before collapsing on his ratty comforter, breathing hard and his hands slightly trembling. He hasn't moved since.

Quiet permeates the house, his father gone on a run and his brothers passed out after stumbling through the front door about an hour ago reeking of sweat and Natty Ice. Mandy is taking her old room for the night, but Mickey hasn't seen her since that afternoon, and her door has been shut for hours; she is probably out screwing some douchebag.

And Mickey still can't sleep.

The house is as peaceful as the Milkovich house ever will be, but despite the silence, only broken by the rhythmic hum of the passing El, despite knowing that his father is currently out of town and will not be back for several days, despite the fact that his eyelids feel like sandpaper when he blinks, Mickey can do nothing but lay there and stare at that damned dent, tracing the lump of the duffel bag beneath him with his thumb, and thinking about leaving.

Thinking about Ian.

Mickey always knew that Ian wanted to go to West Point. Ian wasn't exactly shy about mentioning it, and Mickey had seen him studying and training; he'd felt the smooth strength of the muscles that Ian never seemed to stop packing on, and he knew they weren't just for Mickey's benefit, despite what he would have liked to think. No, Mickey always knew that Ian would leave, that he would get into the army and out of the South Side. Ian was too good for this place, too good for Mickey, and Mickey knew that one day he would walk into the Kash and Grab, and Ian would no longer be standing behind the counter grinning at him.

It is different in reality, though, when West Point is no longer several years away, and Ian no longer lives just down the street; when Mickey sits in an abandoned warehouse waiting for something that will never happen and someone who will never come.

Once Ian is gone, everything is different.

They're meeting at their usual place when Ian shows up twenty minutes late.

"What the fuck, Gallagher?" Mickey says mildly, not wanting to make too big a deal of the fact that he had to wait for almost half an hour, that he was even willing to wait at all.

"Sorry," Ian replies, smiling. He's holding a large manila envelope in his hand, shaking it lightly against his knee as if he doesn't quite know what to do with it.

Mickey's eyes zero in on it and stick. He sees Ian's name and address written across the front, sees the fancy script of the return address, sees the way Ian is clutching it, his knuckles almost white, and Mickey suddenly feels like his stomach is trying to wrap around his spine.

"Is that it then?" Mickey says, wondering if his voice sounds as hollow as he suddenly feels. "You got in?"

Ian's smile suddenly increases ten-fold, his grin stretching from ear to ear, wrinkling his eyes at the corners as he beams. Mickey tries not to stare.

"Yeah," Ian says, the word seeming to burst out of him and laced with a hint of incredulity, as if he still can't quite believe that everything he's ever wanted is held in his hand. His eyes are wide, full of excitement; Mickey thinks he can see the late evening sky reflected in Ian's pupils.

It reminds Mickey of those tacky banners they used to hang in his elementary school classes, telling kids to "Reach for the Stars!" or some other ridiculous bullshit, before life and years of rooting in the dirt replaced upbeat slogans and youthful excitement with arrest records and an endless depth of apathy. Mickey can't help but grin sardonically as he snorts and looks at his feet. Only Ian would literally have fucking stars in his eyes. The smile drops from Mickey's face as he crushes a clump of dirt under his shoe, staring at the mud on the ground and knowing exactly what would be reflected in his own.

Mickey pushes off the wall, bringing his thumb to his mouth and rubbing the corner of his bottom lip. He can't bring himself to meet Ian's gaze, to see his smile slowly fade as the silence thickens between them. He abruptly shoves his hand in his pocket, grabbing his pack of cigarettes and quickly lighting one so he has something to do with his hands. He knows his movements are giving him away; his hands move a little too quickly, too sharply, as he brings the cigarette to his mouth, and he chances a quick glance at Ian's face as he inhales, his eyes squinting as if trying not to see Ian too clearly because then maybe Ian will be able to see him as well.

Ian is no longer smiling, as Mickey knew he wouldn't be, instead watching Mickey with an unsure look on his face, trying to hold Mickey's gaze as he waits for any kind of response.

Mickey quickly looks away again, stares at the red graffiti just over Ian's shoulder. "Fuk Farys" is written in large capital letters spanning half the length of the wall. Mickey remembers laughing with Ian about it the first time they came up here. "What a fag!" he'd chuckled before Ian had shoved him up against the red letters, and they'd both reached for their belt buckles. Mickey never knew it was possible to laugh that hard while shooting off.

It doesn't seem so funny now as Mickey shifts his eyes back to Ian's shoulder, seemingly mesmerized by the plaid of his button down shirt while trying to wrap his head around the fact that Ian is actually leaving.

No more late nights at the Kash and Grab one-upping each other with stories of scams they'd pulled. No more afternoons hanging out talking about all the shit their families get up to, sneaking as many glances at each other as they can with only the other boy's raised eyebrows and teasing words as a consequence. No more wide smiles offering a reprieve from the bleak gloom of the Milkovich house. No more pale, freckled skin, no more easy laughter.

No more Gallagher.

At that thought, Mickey's breath catches in his throat as he suddenly stills. His insides feel as if they've frozen. As if dense, jagged shards of ice are piercing him from the inside out, and he can't move, can't even breath too deeply, afraid that any motion will shatter him into hundreds of pieces and spread them out on the dirty concrete for Ian to see; weak, and broken, and dissolving.

Mickey takes one more pull and lets his cigarette drop from his fingers.

"Congratulations."

The word sticks to his tongue, is pushed from his lips by the hot smoke rising from his lungs. It coats his mouth, a bitter film on his teeth and tongue, and he can't escape the taste of it even as he spits and smoke unfurls from his lips, drifting into his eyes. He's not sure what burns more.

Ian hesitates, opening and closing his mouth once before he finally speaks, his voice softer than before. "I don't leave for several months."

He pauses, waiting for a response, but Mickey still doesn't move, just lights another cigarette and takes a long drag.

"And New York is not really that far if you think about it," Ian rushes to continue, his words coming more and more quickly as he tries to assure them both that everything they've spent years building, assembling piece by piece with knowing silences and sideways glances, isn't about to start falling apart; that it won't be slowly chipped away by distance and broken, unspoken promises.

"I'll have weekends off," he states with an assumed sense of authority, "and it's only a few hours by plane, so I'll come visit as often as I can-"

"Don't," Mickey interrupts in a hard voice, his eyes still trained on the base of Ian's throat, the subtle movements of Ian's adam's apple.

"You've got a ticket out of this shit hole, Gallagher," he goes on. "Get the fuck out of here and don't look back."

The words are harsh, his voice rigid and braced against the pressure bubbling up at the back of his throat. Mickey finally looks up, his gaze clashing with Ian's in a tangled mess of fury and pain, love and resignation.

His voice is sullen as he continues, "There's nothing here worth looking back for."

And Ian can do nothing but watch as Mickey walks away.

Things go back to normal after that, but they don't talk about West Point again. If they hold each other tighter, their fingers pressing in a little harder, neither mentions it. When they don't have matching shifts Mickey starts showing up at the Kash and Grab every day after work, pressing Ian roughly against the wall as he kisses him. Ian never comments on the new habit, just starts closing up earlier and earlier every evening and heading straight to the warehouse on his nights off.

Mickey's always waiting.

This tenuous balance carries on for weeks, through Spring and into the hot summer months, and everything seems fine until Ian is set to leave in ten days, and Mickey disappears. He stops meeting Ian after work, stops going to the warehouse; Mandy begins to call him a fucking hermit, as he avoids any place that Ian may know to look for him and spends most of his time in his room.

Mickey just tells her to fuck off.

He feels like there's something crawling under his skin, consuming him from the inside out, and it gets worse the closer it gets to Ian leaving. He'd hoped that it would go away if he didn't see Gallagher; after all, he'd have to get used to getting by without the redhead real soon anyway; he may as well start now.

As the day gets nearer, though, the itch just seems to build and build, and when Mickey finds himself pacing a hole into his bedroom carpet one night, something finally snaps. He grabs the lamp by his bed, knocking over the piles of magazines and old food plates, and throws it against the wall, relishing in the feeling of finally doing something. As he hears Mandy start to yell in the background, he turns quickly and rushes out of his room and out of the house, leaving the door wide open behind him.

Ian leaves in two days when Mickey finds himself on his doorstep, watching the silhouettes of his siblings walk back and forth across the window while he gathers the remaining shreds of his courage and knocks.

He lets out a relieved breath when it's Ian who opens the door, despite the slightly hostile look of surprise on Ian's face.

"Hey, Mickey."

He steps outside and shuts the door behind him. Ian just stares at him, his eyes silently daring him to break the silence, but Mickey keeps his mouth shut, his jaw so tight he can feel his teeth grinding together.

"Where the hell have you been?" Ian finally caves, anger coming through in his voice.

Mickey chews the corner of his lip while he shoves his hands in his pockets and watches a spider crawl up the side of the doorframe.

"I've been around."

"Really?" Ian asks in an unbelieving tone. He doesn't bother pausing for a response. "Well I haven't seen you."

Mickey doesn't say anything, his mind going into overload as he still tries to figure out why he's there. His skin feels like it's vibrating, refusing to be still even as he stands rooted to the ground.

"Did you want something?" Ian asks dryly, frustration lacing every word as he crosses his arms, attempting to look at least mildly detached.

"Yeah, man," Mickey says, trying to sounds casual as he shifts his weight onto his left foot, but then he looks at Ian, and his voice fails. "I just..."

He breaks off, abruptly blowing out a breath and looking to the side again. The spider has disappeared.

The silence lingers for a few seconds more before Ian snaps and drops his arms from across his chest, holding them tightly at his sides.

"Jesus Christ, Mickey!"

Mickey's eyes snap to his, and they stare at each other for a few seconds. It feels like an hour.

"I'm leaving in two days," Ian finally says, deadpan. "Do you even realize that? Fuck, do you even care?" He makes a sound halfway between a scoff and a laugh, shaking his head slightly as his eyes drill into the boy in front of him, accusing and pleading simultaneously.

Mickey looks down, and that feeling starts to creep in again, a thrumming, simmering heat that he's starting to recognize as anger.

"Three years," Ian goes on, oblivious to the rising tension coiling throughout Mickey's body. "We've been doing this, whatever the fuck this is, for three fucking years, and it means nothing to you?" It comes out as part statement part question, and they both hope that the other one knows the answer.

Ian crosses his arms again.

"You know what? Forget it. I'll be gone in a few days, and you'll never have to see me again. Have a nice life." His voice loses all bravado halfway through, as if whatever hope he'd been clinging to finally snapped, and he's almost whispering by the time he goes to close door.

The subtle tingling over Mickey's skin suddenly sharpens, becoming an acute pulsing in his fingertips as he watches the door begin to shut. It's a clear, defined anger, not the irrational fury that overcomes him before he rushes headfirst into a brawl or punches someone in the face for insulting his sister. It's sharp and translucent, and Mickey realizes that he's been angry for the past six months; in fact, he's furious.

He's furious at his father, at life, at Ian. Yet mainly, at the root of it all, he's furious at finally having figured out what the hell he wants, what he needs, just to have it taken away. And with that realization, the words finally break free.

"You're the one leaving, Gallagher."

Ian freezes, standing motionless for several heartbeats before turning back around to face Mickey, eyes wide. "What?"

"You heard me," Mickey says roughly, looking Ian straight in the eye. "So don't tell me the last three years didn't mean shit when you're the one walking away now."

They stare at each other, shoulders square and chins up, a kind of stand off. Ian's eyes are a mix of surprise, hurt, and guilt, full of realization. Mickey has never been this open, has never actually talked about his feelings or their relationship, and the fact that he just inadvertently declared his commitment to Ian suddenly hits them both simultaneously.

Ian takes a step forward. Mickey drops his gaze.

"Mick..."

Mickey exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut before roughly dropping his arm as if he can no longer bear its weight. "Fuck this," he mutters as he turns and begins to walk away.

"Mick, wait."

He can hear Ian coming down the steps after him and just walks faster. He should have known it wouldn't be that easy.

"Would you just stop?" Ian shouts, grabbing Mickey's elbow and swinging him around. Mickey inwardly curses Ian's freakishly long legs.

"Fuck you, Gallagher," he yells reaching to push Ian away. He doesn't know how he ends up grabbing his jacket and bringing him in closer instead. Ian's eyes are looking down at him, soft and questioning, and Mickey hates the part of himself that can't help but answer.

"Just...fuck you," he breathes, before pulling Ian the rest of the way and kissing him.

Ian lets out a surprised gasp that Mickey quickly swallows by pushing his tongue into his mouth, as he pulls their bodies flush together. Ian's hands press flat against Mickey's lower back, not allowing any space between them as he responds, lightly biting Mickey's lower lip before sealing their mouths together again with a moan.

They stumble backward until they reach the stairs leading up to the house, and Mickey turns them around, pressing Ian into the railing and swallowing a sigh as Ian grabs his ass in both hands, hauling them even closer together. Mickey is pouring everything into this kiss; everything he's ever felt for Ian but could never say is now rushing through his veins, seeping from his bones and pushing through his skin, being passed to the redhead through their joined mouths and entwined bodies.

And Ian can feel it all. What the last years have meant and what they'll always mean. How much Mickey will miss him. How he wishes things could be different.

Mickey doesn't know when he became okay with making out with Ian in the middle of his front yard, in full view of anyone who looked out their window, but he can't bring himself to care. All he knows is that he can't stop because when he does Ian will leave, so he just tightens his hold on Ian's jacket and presses their lips together harder.

A part of Mickey hates Ian for making him feel this way, hates that he's almost shaking when they finally pull apart. Yet somehow their foreheads end up pressed together, and Mickey can do nothing but keep his eyes closed and try to calm his heartbeat as they breathe into each other, sharing the same air as they clutch each other's arms, clothing, hair; whatever they can reach.

"Come with me," Ian whispers, pulling on the collar of Mickey's shirt until the fabric is stretched taut. It's an order, as if he can't let Mickey make up his own mind or he might say no.

Mickey opens his eyes and laughs dismissively, brushing off the offer and trying to turn his head away, but Ian doesn't let him. He grabs Mickey's jaw and kisses him quickly, hard, while tightening the grip of his other hand on Mickey's waist.

"Come with me," he repeats when he breaks away, ducking his head so Mickey has to meet his eyes, see how serious he is.

Mickey holds his gaze, and his fingers curl around Ian's biceps. His breath catches in his throat as he opens his mouth to speak, and for one glorious moment he feels like he can say yes, like this is something he can have: a world outside of Chicago, outside of the cage that the name Milkovich has trapped him in.

He closes his eyes, letting out a shuddering breath, but when he tries to talk the words get caught in his throat. He looks up and sees his knuckles against Ian's clean, pale skin; black ink that ties him to this fucking life just as permanently as the letters are set in his skin. And who is he to think things could ever be otherwise?

"I can't."

"Why not?" Ian pleads, refusing to give up. "There's nothing here for you, Mick, just this fucked up city. You can get out. We can get out. Just...Come with me."

There's a long pause, the silence broken only by their soft breathing. Ian can see the thoughts flashing through Mickey's eyes, can see him thinking about it, but Mickey's eyes slowly dim as years of fear and self-hatred win out.

"Nah man," Mickey mutters, eyes flicking over Ian's face. "You're better off without me."

Ian tries to speak, but Mickey cuts him off. "I belong in the South Side, Gallagher," he says steadily. "What am I anywhere else?"

Ian opens his mouth to reply, a look of determination still on his face, but Mickey kisses him before he can argue anymore. It's gentler than they're used to, lips just pressed firmly together. Mickey lingers before he pulls away, trailing his tongue along Ian's bottom lip as if needing one last taste.

Mickey draws back, hands going into his pockets, cocky posture making him stand up straighter. He's a fucking Milkovich after all.

"I'll see you, Gallagher."

His voice is hard again, and they watch each other for a few seconds, both knowing it's a lie.

Mickey's already walking away by the time Ian nods.

When Mickey finds the folded ticket crammed under his windowsill a few days later he knows exactly where it's from. Ian always was a sneaky bastard.

Mickey doesn't know why he didn't throw it away, why he kept it hidden under his couch cushions for several days, pulling it out every night to read with his door shut an locked. He keeps it in his inner jacket pocket now, close to his skin.

Mickey pulls the piece of paper out again, realized that he never bothered to get undressed, and reads it for what feels like the hundredth time. It's a simple voucher, plain type with his name printed near the top underneath a Greyhound logo.

The bus ride is over twenty four hours long, and Mickey grimaces at the thought. He can imagine the smelly, chatty, fat-ass he just knows would sit next to him, and he wonders again why he hasn't ripped the thing up. It sounds like hell, and what would make New York any better than Chicago? He'd find another shitty job and another shitty apartment while scraping by in another shitty town.

But he would have Ian. The one good thing in his whole shitty life.

Mickey puts the ticket back in his pocket and holds it there, pressing it against his chest as he continues to stare at the dent in his wall. He reaches out his hand, running his fingernail along the ridge of a crack, and before he knows what he's doing he's climbing out of bed and yanking his bag out from under the mattress.

He doesn't bother pulling the clothes out of his dresser, as he can't remember the last time he actually used it for anything other than a place to throw is jacket and empty the shit from his pockets. He just grabs the piles of dirty jeans and tank tops spread across his floor, throwing them on the bed as he makes his way across the room, before hastily cramming everything haphazardly into the duffel.

Focusing on trying to shove a pair of jeans into the back corner of the bag, Mickey jumps when Mandy's voice suddenly cuts into the silence from behind him.

"What are you doing?"

"Go back to bed, Mandy," he snaps, keeping his back to her.

"Are you packing?" she asks curiously, even though it was pretty obvious.

Mickey turns quickly, "I said fuck off!"

He hears her footsteps retreat towards her room and lets out a breath as she leaves. The relief doesn't last long, however, as she's back less than a minute later.

"You're going after him aren't you?" she asks, poised in the doorway as if blocking his escape.

Mickey's only half listening to her, intent on getting his shit together as quickly as possible, and he lets out an exasperated sigh, "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Ian."

At that one word Mickey freezes, his entire body tense and one hand still buried up to the elbow in his bag.

"Are you on something?" he tries to sound nonchalant, but his voice is as rigid as his shoulders, each word catching slightly on the one before it.

Mandy doesn't answer, but a flying shirt suddenly hits him in the back of the head.

Mickey spins around angrily, partially turning while ripping the shirt off his face. "What the fuck, Mandy!" he yells in a whisper, not so carried away as to forget that his drunk brothers are in the next room.

"I found that wedged under Ian's mattress when doing a load of laundry a few weeks ago," she says.

Mickey looks at the cloth in his hands and recognizes one of his old teeshirts that he stole from the thrift shop down the road; he hasn't seen it in weeks.

Mickey's eyes flash to Mandy's, wide and panicked, before he quickly turns back around to face the bed. His hands are clutching the worn fabric, tracing the faded tree pattern, and he doesn't bother trying to come up with an excuse. He doesn't think he could get the words out even if he could think of any; he just knows he can't look at her. Can't bear to see the expression on her face.

"I didn't know what to do," Mandy continues resolutely when she realizes Mickey's not going to say anything, "so it's been sitting in my room ever since."

Mickey stays silent as he continues to stare at the shirt in his hand. He remembers an afternoon at Ian's when all the Gallagher siblings were out, and Ian had bribed him into coming over with the promise of a blow job. They'd spent hours up in Ian's room fucking and just messing around, but when Mickey had needed to get home to meet up with his brothers, he couldn't find his shirt. Ian had been a total prick about it, going on about Mickey trying not to sunburn his delicate skin while he walked home half naked, and he had quickly descended into what can only be described as the giggles when Mickey pounced on him, pinning him to the bed and glaring before grabbing his jacket off the desk and storming out in a huff. He'd never gotten his shirt back.

Mickey is starting to drop the shirt on his bed when he notices that it smells slightly of Ian, like Gallagher had actually worn it several times, and he just lowers his hand instead, keeping the shirt in his fist as he eyes the window next to his bed, wondering if he can jump out of it before Mandy grabs him.

He almost tries it, because that is just what he does; Mickey runs. Fuck, he sprints as fast as his legs can carry him, and he's now petrified, realizing for the first time that there is nowhere left to go.

He stands completely still, hoping that if he doesn't move Mandy might get bored and just go away; if he doesn't acknowledge the situation, then maybe it's not actually happening. Hell, that has been his personal slogan for the past three years with Ian. Mickey almost laughs when he thinks about it, because that obviously worked out so fucking well.

Mandy finally loses patience with him, and he can tell she's trying not to shout.

"Seriously, Mickey? You're just gonna stand there?"

He imagines he can hear her stomp her foot as he still doesn't move.

"You might as well give it up," she says, crossing her arms and suddenly sounding like a baiting, twelve-year-old girl, "he told me all about it."

That gets Mickey's attention, and he whips around, eyes wide and mouth open, gaping at her in shock and looking so struck and almost hurt that Mandy takes a literal step back.

"Oh for fuck's sake, Mickey!" she bursts out once she realizes why her brother looks so betrayed. "He didn't tell me anything about you. You should know Ian better than that seeing as you've apparently been fucking him for who knows how long," she says, way too smug for her own good.

Mickey relaxes slightly but looks back down to Mandy's feet.

"He just told me there was someone," she clarifies. "He never gave me much detail, but I could tell he really liked him." She tries to catch Mickey's eye. "He said he almost wished the guy would ask him to stay, but he knew it would never happen." Mandy suddenly lets out a humorless chuckle. "I should have known then that he was talking about you."

Mickey looks up, questioning, and Mandy smiles. "You always were a pussy when it came to emotional shit."

Mickey just glares at her.

"He would have stayed you know," she goes on, her voice suddenly soft, and Mickey recognizes the tone she used the other day when trying to pet a stray cat in the front yard.

Mickey scoffs and can't help but answer, pushing the words past his dry lips. "No he fucking wouldn't have. You should know him better than that," he sneers, throwing her own words back in her face.

"Yeah, I guess you're right," she laughs, "driven fucker isn't he?"

Mickey thinks of Ian studying math theorems, of his makeshift bootcamp, and his unending enthusiasm for all things military, and Mickey can feel a smile creeping onto his face that he's sure is entirely too fond. He looks down quickly but knows he's not successful at hiding his expression when he hears Mandy's next words.

"You must really love him."

"Fuck off," Mickey spits while turning around again, his movements jerky, and he quickly stuffs the shirt into his pack, as if he just realized that he was still holding it.

He yanks the zipper closed, squeezing in the sides of bag and snagging pieces of material as he pulls and forces the metal teeth together.

He takes a small step back and stares, as if admiring his work. It seems like his whole life has been crammed into that single, small bag, and it looks like it's ready to seams are strained to the point of bursting, and Mickey can see a kink in the zipper where it's warped slightly out of shape. It's stretched to the limit but is somehow managing to hold it all in, and Mickey suddenly knows it will be fine. It only has to hold it together for a little while longer.

He doesn't hear Mandy move and jumps a little when she hugs him from behind.

"I love you, Mickey," she whispers. "You know that right?"

Her arms tighten after she speaks, trying to squeeze the knowledge into him, make it sink in, and force him to accept it as an unconditional truth.

"I'll miss you," she continues, and Mickey releases a breath he didn't realize was holding. That one sentence shows support, love, understanding. Everything he's ever hated himself for needing.

Mickey turns around, his eyes scanning Mandy's face, searching.

She steps away, and the moment is broken, both of them retreating slightly behind the walls that it's so hard for them to drop, even for each other.

"I'll tell dad you went upstate for a delivery or something for a few days" she says, all business again. "Plenty of time to get to New York."

Their eyes hold for several moments before she is quietly turning towards the door, and she's about to leave his room when Mickey finally manages to open his mouth.

"Mandy..." he chokes out, but he is unable to get anything else out.

She turns in the doorway, hand resting on the cracked frame. She sees him struggling and smiles slightly, and Mickey knows that she gets it. That she knows the words he wants to say even better than he does, so Mickey just nods, a quick downward jerk of the head, before turning back to his bed, still not quite able to handle his two worlds of Ian and Mandy colliding.

"Oh and Mickey?"

He looks at her over his shoulder, eyebrows raised.

"You better not screw this up, fuckface," Mandy says forcefully, her voice harsh and low.

Mickey just smirks and throws a balled up sock at her, briefly seeing her answering grin right before she shuts the door behind her.

Mickey collapses on his bed, suddenly exhausted, and casts a quick glance around his room before his eyes are drawn back to the dent in the wall. He traces the cracks with his fingertips and feels the sharp edges, pressing his whole hand firmly against the plaster; it leaves marks when he pulls his hand away; it's hard, durable.

Mickey thinks that maybe being cracked isn't too bad, as he grabs his bag and shuts the door behind him.


End file.
